It had been two days since Nayla wrote the letter.
She hadn't sent it. She hadn't reread it. She wasn't even sure she'd ever open the journal again, but just the act of writing it felt like something had shifted inside her. A door cracked open. A weight gently set down.
Now it was Thursday, and the sky was dim with clouds as she walked toward the bookstore where she and Raka often found each other without needing to plan it. It was their version of a routine never scheduled, but somehow always right.
When she arrived, he was already there, crouched near the poetry section, flipping through a slim volume with a dark red cover. His head tilted up the moment he heard her footsteps, and he smiled, not the exaggerated grin he gave strangers, but the warm one he saved for her. The one that made her stomach turn in the best way.
"You're early," she said, walking toward him.
He held up his phone and smirked. "You're ten minutes late."
She gave him a look. "I didn't know we had a start time."
He grinned wider. "Doesn't matter. You're here now."
They wandered through the aisles as usual. Raka read out loud the most ridiculous first sentences of books, using voices that drew a few glares from other readers and a stifled laugh from Nayla.
Eventually, they climbed the stairs to the café on the second floor. The rain had started outside, light and persistent, the kind that made windows blur and time slow down. They found a quiet table by the corner, where the city looked softer through the drizzle.
Raka stirred his coffee, his spoon clinking gently against the ceramic.
Nayla watched the raindrops trace lines down the glass.
Then, softly, he asked, "Can I ask you something?"
She looked at him, already sensing the shift in the air. She nodded once.
"This thing between us…" He hesitated, looking at her, then down at his hands. "What is it to you?"
Her heart stumbled.
Of course, it was coming. She had known, somewhere deep down, that a moment like this would arrive. That eventually, the silence between their almosts and not-quites would demand words.
She looked into her tea. It had gone a little cold. Her fingers traced the rim of the cup.
"I don't know," she said, honest and unfiltered. "It's not nothing. But I don't have the right word for it yet."
Raka nodded slowly, taking it in.
"I wasn't asking for a label," he said. "I just wanted to know if you feel it too. Even if it's unnamed."
She looked up. His eyes were steady. Soft.
"I do," she said. "I feel it every time you look at me like that."
His brow lifted. "Like what?"
"Like I'm not a puzzle you're trying to solve. Just a person you're trying to understand."
The silence that followed wasn't empty. It held them carefully.
Outside, the rain fell heavier.
Inside, her hand inched toward his across the table.
When their fingers touched, lightly at first, neither of them moved away.
And in that small, quiet gesture, timid, tentative, true was everything they weren't yet ready to say.